


Pinto High School AU Trilogy, Part 3 - Higher Education

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut, e.e. cummings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-02
Updated: 2010-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LOLZ, this is the conclusion of my high school AU ~*~trilogy~*~.  Long distance issues and continued existential angst. Many thanks to e.e. cummings for being too dead to know about all the plagiarism contained herein.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinto High School AU Trilogy, Part 3 - Higher Education

**Title:** Higher Education  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** Zach/Chris  
 **Warnings:** Drugs, I suppose; an instance of not so nice behavior; ANGST  
 **Author's Notes:** LOLZ, this is the conclusion of my high school AU ~*~trilogy~*~. Long distance issues and continued existential angst. Many thanks to e.e. cummings for being too dead to know about all the plagiarism contained herein.

 

 

  


*

Zach knows he shouldn't base life decisions on Chris's blue eyes. So he doesn't.

It's all very adult of him, but his mother is less than appreciative. And he can't blame her for it. Still, he's beginning to see why Joe had got out as quickly as possible after _he'd_ graduated.

Zach's mother nags him to get a job, and it's a constant, unrelenting sort of nagging that he can't escape, and quite a change from her normally coddling attitude toward her youngest.

Anyway, it's not so much the nagging itself as Zach's desire to get away from her that finally motivates him enough to start looking, at least.

"How's the job search coming, Zachary?" his mother greets one evening, the picture of warm maternal fondness but her beady little eyes betray her. There's just no one else around for her to live through any more.

"I can't actually _make_ people call me back, mom. Sorry."

She shakes her head. "Your father would _never_ have . . ."

Zach escapes to his room.

Yeah, Joe running off like Tom Sawyer to boldly go as far away from her as possible it is starting to make a lot of sense.

*

>   
> 
> 
> **dying is fine)but Death**   
> 

> dying is fine)but Death

> ?o  
>  baby  
>  i

> wouldn't like

> Death if Death  
>  were  
>  good:for

> when(instead of stopping to think)you

> begin to feel of it,dying  
>  's miraculous  
>  why?be

> cause dying is

> perfectly natural;perfectly  
>  putting  
>  it mildly lively(but

> Death

> is strictly  
>  scientific  
>  & artificial &

> evil & legal)

> we thank thee  
>  god  
>  almighty for dying  
>  (forgive us,o life!the sin of Death

It's not Zach's usual style, but Chris had always rolled his eyes whenever Zach didn't know some contemporary whoever, and it was astoundingly annoying not to know what Chris was talking about.

The book had only been five bucks at the bookstore in the mall. So.

A round of obnoxious giggling makes him puts down the book and raise his head only to find himself been the sights of a gaggle of girls formerly from his school who, judging by their team spirited hoodies, were now attending the local college. Zach knows he'd probably hit on all them at some point in his nefarious high school career, but he can't for the life of him remember a single one of their names. They're all the same anyway, or at least they try to be.

And Zach just doesn't care anymore. And that's one good thing about being all grown up—it's okay to walk around like you have it all figured out and you _don't_ need to double check with your peers to make sure what you're doing is okay. Zach doesn't need a bunch of cookie cutter sluts to tell him that sweeping the mall for job applications and taking names is a good idea. But then again he's just come face to face with one very strong con of working here.

All of the clothing store employees seem half-asleep, wander around behind the counters for applications and slide them boredly over to Zach. The people at the bookstore had been different, but they'd also been smart and qualified looking and in their 40's.

Zach gets into his car and sighs, craving greasy comfort food like nobody's business so he drives over to the Wal-Mart next to the mall with the McDonald's in it, parks and walks in and fantasizes about the taste of processed meat and the way it summons childhood memories, the backseat of the car, fighting with his brother over their toys and his father keeping the peace effortlessly in a way his mother never could. I mean, Zach is this close to getting a fucking Happy Meal when he notices a stack of applications leaning against the register.

It's a different experience than with the clothing stores and the other places he'd aimlessly applied to—the manager's eyes light up and he takes Zach aside and asks excitedly about his availability and how soon he can start and what size polo shirt and hat or visor?

Zach probably should've thought more about it, but then had come that vision of living in his mother's house for all eternity and eventually being driven to matricide _and_ incurable boredom and he'd stumbled over himself to say yes.

*

>   
> 
> 
> **the boys i mean are not refined**   
> 

> the boys i mean are not refined  
>  they go with girls who buck and bite  
>  they do not give a fuck for luck  
>  they hump them thirteen times a night

> one hangs a hat upon her tit  
>  one carves a cross on her behind  
>  they do not give a shit for wit  
>  the boys i mean are not refined

> they come with girls who bite and buck  
>  who cannot read and cannot write  
>  who laugh like they would fall apart  
>  and masturbate with dynamite

> the boys i mean are not refined  
>  they cannot chat of that and this  
>  they do not give a fart for art  
>  they kill like you would take a piss

> they speak whatever's on their mind  
>  they do whatever's in their pants  
>  the boys i mean are not refined  
>  they shake the mountains when they dance

Yeah, it's official—e.e. cummings rocks Zach's world.

"He what?" Chris asks over the phone, sounds distracted.

"Rocks my world? Is awesome? Thought I'd tell you since you were always on my case to read more non-Frost 20th-century stuff?"

" _Oh_. Okay. Yeah. Hey, what time is it there?"

"Like, uh, like midnight."

Chris laughs, and Zach can hear a page turn too. "That's what I thought. Don't you have to like wake up at some point tomorrow?"

"Well, I'm not on 'til 2, so."

"Ah."

And there's silence for a while. "Chris?"

"Mhmm?"

Zach laughs. "You didn't have to answer if you were busy, you know. I get it, I mean jeez . . . "

"Don't be stupid, I always want to talk to you. It's nice to hear a familiar voice. And anyway I can multitask when it comes to Milton—it's the same thing explained 12 different ways for like the whole page."

Zach isn't offended. He isn't. Chris's ability to multitask has been proven time and time again—for example, that time Chris had given him a hand job under the table at a restaurant while simultaneously carrying on a charming, witty conversation with their hostess and ordering for the both of them.

And so that's not what Zach that latches onto: "What, you're not making friends in Dorks 101?"

Chris laughs. "I've only been here for like three weeks, Zach."

He's gotta be wrong—it's definitely been longer.

"And anyway my roommate isn't an English major. I dunno. A bunch of people from one of my classes keep inviting me out with them but I mean I've got so much homework already . . ."

"Thought you were the king of multitaskers, Chris, jeez."

Another page turn where Zach had been expecting a laugh. " _Yeah_ . . . yeah, I know but . . . oh shit which one is Orpheus, again? Ugh, what the fuck is wrong with me . . ."

"The musical Argonaut who failed miserably to get that chick back from the Underworld," Zach supplies. There's an eruption of shuffling papers and the sound of Chris scratching something down. "I mean, a bunch of people with the same interests as you probably wouldn't be asshole drunkards, you know?"

"What, you mean like you?"

"Yeah. Wait. Do you mean the compatibility part or the asshole part?"

"Mhmm. Hey, Zach, I've really gotta concentrate on this now."

"Some multitasker _you_ are . . ." Zach says, going for pseudo mopeyness.

It doesn't seem to register with Chris. "Mmkay. Well I'll talk to you later, okay? Bye, Zach."

"Yeah, goodby—"

_Click._

*

>   
> 
> 
> **nothing false and possible is love . . .**   
> 

> nothing false and possible is love  
>  (who's imagined,therefore is limitless)  
>  love's to giving as to keeping's give;  
>  as yes is to if,love is to yes

> must's a schoolroom in the month of may:  
>  life's the deathboard where all now turns when  
>  (love's a universe beyond obey  
>  or command,reality or un-)

> proudly depths above why's first because  
>  (faith's last doubt and humbly heights below)  
>  kneeling,we-true lovers-pray that us  
>  will ourselves continue to outgrow

> all whose mosts if you have known and i've  
>  only we our least begin to guess

Zach glances up at the clock, curses and pushes through the other Restaurant Crewmembers to clock in on the register. Dashes to the back of the store to stow his book and his coat, black as pitch and easy to spot next to the others' jean jackets.

He's struggling to make his hair cooperate with his visor when Alex appears in front of him, grinning.

Zach rolls his eyes. "Don't you have some burgers to be flipping, man?"

"You've been here long enough to know that we don't actually flip burgers, haven't you?" And Alex makes it sound like Zach can't name the three branches of government.

Something beeps like Armageddon is nigh and Zach rushes to push some buttons and make it stop.

"Nuggets are ready," Alex says sagely.

"Ya think?" Zach pushes past him to find some gloves.

"So, Shakespeare. What were you reading on your break?"

Zach sighs, points at the screen above them. "Um, you've got like seven doubles to make, Alex."

"Jen's got it. Hey, look at me, dude," Alex laughs, but he's just so dweeby and pathetic that Zach can't imagine he's succeeded in bullying anywhere but McDonald's. Still, he's totally done enough irritating things to both Zach and the other employees during Zach's short tenure to earn Zach's wrath.

Zach pushes him against the sink, doesn't even care that he'll have to change his gloves again. "Hey, _dude_ , I'm sorry you never learned how to read but that's no reason to get all jealous."

Alex's eyes go wide and flicker around for help and God is it ever satisfying to see such a confident asshole look so frantic. Zach grins and leans closer just to freak him out . . .

"I _said_ ," someone calls from the front, "remake on the _plain_ burger with the Happy Meal—no onions means _no onions_. Wake the hell up back there!"

Zach gives Alex a parting shove and changes his gloves and gets to work on the remake.

By the time the night crew has phased in, Zach's been switched to register, and if his mom thinks _he's_ pathetic, she'd do well to put in a single day of work at McDonald's.

Now, Zach is aware that he lives in a small town, and he's aware that that comes with its share of rednecks, hicks, trailer trash, Republicans, whatever, but he's never truly appreciated just how well represented that particular population was in Wal-Mart.

It's truly a life-changing experience. A veritable morality play played out before him, each person in line stepping up to teach him a new lesson. Zach has learned the importance of dental hygiene, what not to wear when pregnant, the proper balance of hair care and makeup, what not to wear in general, the difficulty of accepting that the '80's are so emphatically over that people are starting to freak out over Y2K and exploding Furbies and shit. And _so_ much more . . .

But far more pervasive than all the petty fashion and poor grammar is the sadness. These people don't care enough about X to do Y, are intimately acquainted with their unfulfilling existences but are too lazy or glum or trapped in a cycle of small town nothingness to do anything about it.

For God's sake, they eat at McDonald's every day and nothing ever changes—not their orders, not their fashion sense, not the dead look in their eyes.

*

>   
> 
> 
> **guilt is the cause of more disorders**   
> 

> guilt is the cause of more disorders  
>  than history's most obscene marorders

Zach can't get the damn thing out of his head, probably because he can't figure out what 'marorders' are.

He's learned his lesson about reading on break, though, and makes a trip to the mall instead. Sure, he encounters the occasional ghost of high school past, but most of them seem as self-absorbed as he is. That, or Zach's continued black from head to toe look really does help him blend in. In fact, that's kind of the reason he's here. He may not be a cookie-cutter blonde coed, but he's definitely worked hard to be a cookie-cutter _something_ awfully stereotypical.

It's worth noting that Zach hasn't ever actually shopped with any other goals in mind other than a) the color black, and b) a general air of badassery. And so he looks for the opposite as much as possible, favoring bright colors and weird combinations and ironic T-shirts, discovering different cuts of jeans that are less about practicality and more about _accentuation_. Shoes that aren't durably black and accessories accessories accessories, as the overeager salesperson at H &M insists upon.

When he tries his new purchases on in front of his mom's floor length mirror later it's hard to recognize himself, but it's also easy to recognize how open to interpretation the new clothes leave him, how easy it was don them and shed off simplicity and predictability and everything else even remotely conformist.

*

Zach's mother has a somewhat different opinion.

"I just don't see what was wrong with your normal clothes, Zachary."

Zach sighs. "It's not like we don't have the money, mom. And anyway that's besides the point since I bought them with _my_ money . . ."

"I just. I just don't understand why you're doing all of this _now_. Your brother had a rebellious streak in school, as you know . . ."

Zach snorts. "Yeah, and he took off as soon as he could."

" _Zachary._ " And she recoils at the sound of her own voice. Zach really hates thinking of his mom as just another human being with flaws and issues, but he's being hit over the head with it lately. "I'm not trying to stifle you or be nosy or _annoying_ or whatever else your brother . . . Zachary, honey, I only want the best for you. You understand that, right? You're not an idiot and it's because of that that I expect a lot for you. Expecting you to succeed doesn't make me the bad guy, does it?"

Zach doesn't think so, but his mom doesn't seem so sure. "Mom . . ."

"I know I've been easy on you up until now. For God's sake, you've been held back and suspended and everything else and I've _always_ stuck by you. I've never came down on you too hard about it—and yes, it's probably because of Joe—but now? You need to _grow up_."

"Yeah, okay, I'll get on that." And Zach has to get out of there, heads for the staircase.

"Your father would've—"

"Oh my God, mom, _I don't know_ what he would've. I was in fucking kindergarten. _God!_ "

He slams the door to his room, pretends his hands aren't shaking as he digs around his desk for his book, so cluttered with outdated loose leafs and unsharpened pencils and folders from middle school. College brochures.

He forces himself to relax in his childhood bed, tries to concentrate on the jumbled words but his jumbled mind is incompatible with them.

He dials the phone in his room—yet another symbol of the spoiled brat that he is.

"Hey, you!" Chris answers, so cheerful it's practically out of character. It surprises a smile out of Zach, at least.

"Hey. Important question for you—what the fuck are 'marorders'?"

"Hmm!" Chris sounds glad that Zach's called, which normally would please him except that it makes Zach realize how unenthusiastic Chris usually is about their conversations anymore. "Ooh, that actually sounds familiar. Use it in a sentence?"

"What, are you competing in the Berkeley Spelling Bee or something?" Chris laughs. " _Guilt is the cause of more disorders than history's most obscene marorders._ "

"Cummings! Dude!"

"Yeah, but that doesn't exactly help—"

"I can't believe you're reading Cummings! Zach! This is awesome!" And Chris laughs like he can't control it.

"Finally taking your advice and that."

"Zach. Zach. Hey. _Zach._ "

"Uh . . ."

"You'll never guess what I did tonight!"

"Studying like always?"

"Noooo! I hung out over at the other dorms and I ex _peeeeeeeeer_ imented with marijuana!"

". . . Ah. Okay, yeah, this explains a lot . . ."

"California woo!"

"Right."

" _Zach._ " The way Chris says it makes Zach shiver. "Zach, I feel like I'm fitting in here, you know?"

"Because you're conforming to drug culture?"

"No no no no. Zach. Just, you should be here. Everyone here thinks with their brains, you know?"

"Imagine that."

"Zach. Just apply somewhere around here. It's so warm and awesome and yeah. I want you _here_ so you can be warm and awesome too, baby . . . don't you wanna read awesome stuff too?"

" _Or_ I could just read shit on my own. You don't exactly have to take a class on it, Chris. You didn't _have_ to go away to college just to _read books._ "

Chris's tone does a complete 180: "Yeah, I guess so. On the other hand _you_ don't _have_ to give up on yourself without even trying, Zach."

"Nice. Thanks for that, Chris. Have fun being popular."

"Zach—"

_Click._

*

Chris calls him the next morning:

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is scratchy with sleep or static maybe—Zach has trouble remembering how he sounds in person.

"Yeah, me too."

"I."

"I miss you, too," Zach says all at once. "I miss . . . the way you smile. Shut up."

"Yeah? I miss the way you smell."

"I miss the way you always have an answer for everything, even when I say stupid shit like 'I miss the way you smile.'"

" _I_ miss touching you. I miss fucking in movie theaters last summer. I mean, I still don't really get who Private Ryan even was. It wasn't Tom Hanks, right?"

"I have no idea," Zach says. "I miss that one time on your living room couch . . ."

" _Zach_ ," Chris warns. "In public, here."

_It's the way Chris says his name that undoes him. It's the way Chris says anything, really. The way he writhes under him and the buttery late afternoon light through the curtains. Looking at him, hot and addictive around him . . ._

_Watching Chris getting closer and closer, body twisting and hands clutching at plump cushions and Zach's taut forearm and begging for more and laughing in delight and piercing Zach with his eyes._

"Zach?"

But Zach isn't making life decisions based on Chris's blue eyes, so he doesn't.

"Sorry," Zach says. "I've gotta get to work."

*

>   
> 
> 
> **enter no**   
> 

> enter no(silence is the blood whose flesh  
>  is singing)silence:but unsinging. In  
>  spectral such hugest how hush,one

> dead leaf stirring makes a crash

> -far away(as far as alive)lies  
>  april;and i breathe-move-and-seem some  
>  perpetually roaming whylessness-

> autumn has gone:will winter never come?

> o come,terrible anonymity;enfold  
>  phantom me with the murdering minus of cold  
>  -open this ghost with millionary knives of wind-  
>  scatter his nothing all over what angry skies and

> gently  
>  (very whiteness:absolute peace,  
>  never imaginable mystery)  
>  descend

Chris doesn't answer the first time Zach calls so Zach tries again. And again and again and again until he's forgotten that someone could possibly pick up the phone and talk into it.

"Sorry, man. I was in the shower," Chris says. "How was work?"

"I quit." Just saying it makes Zach feel giddy.

"Um . . ."

"No, just listen. It's a good thing. I tried out for this thing up at the college and I made it and rehearsals are gonna be like almost every night and—"

"The jazz band? I mean, I know they hold auditions for non-students—"

"No no no, I mean the theater troupe."

"Ohhh," Chris says. "Wait, _what?_ "

"Shut up. I made it, didn't I?"

"No, it's good, I just never knew you were interested in acting."

"It's still artistic, it's still performance, it's got the same end result as music and I dunno, it's kind of, like, I dunno, freeing or something." Zach's good at playing roles anyway, so he might as well put it to use.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"What, do you have something against the performing arts, Chris?" Zach asks, and he's only joking.

"No. Well. It's just that my parents are both actors, so I guess I have a skewed perspective or whatever . . ."

"Wait. Your parents are _actors?_ In small-town, USA?"

"They got tired of LA."

"Aaaand now you're going to school there."

"Ironic, right?"

"Heh. How did I not know what your parents did for a living?" It feels like something Zach should know.

"Sorry. I don't know what your parents do for a living, either, and that seems more relevant considering how ridiculously extravagant your place of residence is. I mean, seriously, what did your dad do to make that kind of money?"

" . . . He, uh. Died." Zach can hear Chris's gasp. "Insurance money or whatever. Hey, don't freak out, it happened a long time ago. I don't really remember him." Zach mostly just remembers feeling hopelessly out of control all the time until he'd discovered people more hopeless than he was and controlled them instead. It used to work, but nothing simple works with Chris. Chris has always gotta be _more_ grown up, no matter that he's younger.

"Zach," Chris says after a minute. "God, this is going to make me sound like a dick, but I've gotta go to class now."

But unfortunately for Chris, Zach is just annoyed enough at him for being so out of reach that he resents every additional bit of minutiae that demands his attention. "Yeah? Well have fun with your awesome pothead friends."

"Hey, come on . . . God, Zach, I miss you, you idiot. Don't be _pissed_ —"

"I'm not."

_Click._

*

>   
> 
> 
> **l(a**   
> 

> l(a

> le  
>  af

> fa  
>  ll  
>  s)

> one  
>  l  
>  iness

The intrusive flash of a camera makes Zach jump and drop this book.

"Oh, dammit!" says the cameraman, plucking it off the floor and handing it back to him. "Sorry, man."

"Thanks." Zach can feel the guy's eyes on him as he attempts to concentrate on his book again. Looks up. " _Yes?_ "

"I know this is really bad timing and all but do you mind if I use this in the school paper? It's not as lame as it sounds, I promise—I do a spread in the arts section. It's all very contemporary and eccentric. Kind of like our mutual friend Mr. Cummings." And he offers a broad smile.

Zach can't help but smile back. "Go for it. I'm Zach, by the way, if you're planning on actually crediting me or whatever," he says, reaching out to shake hands.

"Oh, sorry. I'm Tyler." He takes Zach's hand and might hold on for a beat too long, but Zach doesn't mind. "So . . . what year are you?"

"Oh. I don't go here. I'm just here for—" and Zach gestures around them at the stage and the other members of the troupe sleeping or socializing or cramming lines before rehearsal.

"Hey, it's all good, man. So, is this production gonna be worth showing up to? Are you gonna be the underdog breakout star of the season? Any catchy blurbs you wanna give me to impress my editor?"

Zach laughs. "I dunno . . ."

Tyler smiles and nods and shifts his weight. "Say . . . what are you doing after rehearsal? You wanna get some coffee or something? There's this place by the high school that's—"

"Thanks, but I've got a lot of lines to learn."

So yes, there _are_ people with brains that want to talk to Zach other than Chris, but that doesn't make them Chris with his blue eyes that influence Zach in no way whatsoever.

*

>   
> 
> 
> **you said Is**   
> 

> you said Is  
>  there anything which  
>  is dead or alive more beautiful  
>  than my body,to have in your fingers  
>  (trembling ever so little)?  
>  Looking into  
>  your eyes Nothing,i said,except the  
>  air of spring smelling of never and forever.

> ....and through the lattice which moved as  
>  if a hand is touched by a  
>  hand(which  
>  moved as though  
>  fingers touch a girl's  
>  breast,  
>  lightly)  
>  Do you believe in always,the wind  
>  said to the rain  
>  I am too busy with  
>  my flowers to believe,the rain answered

"I know I probably shouldn't be discouraging this sudden interest in the written word," Zach's mom says, "but I'm having trouble understanding how it's productive to sit around the house all day and read."

Zach shrugs, closes his book and walks straight up to her. "I quit my job and now I'm learning lines for the theater company at the college. The company that I auditioned for and got into even though they rarely accept people who aren't enrolled in school there and I have no prior training. Right now, though, I'm just reading poetry for the hell of it. Anything else you need to know?"

And her face falls as though Zach's just admitted to drug dealing. "If your father was here . . ."

"If my father was here, he'd want me to do what I _wanted_ and he sure as hell wouldn't want me sticking around in this piece of shit town just to keep you happy, 'cause honestly mom, it doesn't seem to make you happy at all."

*

>   
> 
> 
> **there are so many tictoc . . .**   
> 

> there are so many tictoc  
>  clocks everywhere telling people  
>  what toctic time it is for  
>  tictic instance five toc minutes toc  
>  past six tic

> Spring is not regulated and does  
>  not get out of order nor do  
>  its hands a little jerking move  
>  over numbers slowly

> we do not  
>  wind it up it has no weights  
>  springs wheels inside of  
>  its slender self no indeed dear  
>  nothing of the kind.

> (So,when kiss Spring comes  
>  we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss  
>  lips because tic clocks toc don't make  
>  a toctic difference  
>  to kisskiss you and to  
>  kiss me)

The plane lands and Zach continues to stare at the final page of his book. Leaves it in the seatback compartment on an impulse and makes his way out into the terminal with nothing but the (awesome) clothes on his back.

It can't be called February, here. February is not characterized by the sight of grass and the sun so hot you can barely breathe or look anything other than sweaty and miserable. Not to mention that Zach's just Irish enough to be ducking for shade like the mob's after him.

Thankfully the library is air-conditioned, and Zach takes a minute to breathe and push his gel free hair into some semblance of order, and it's taking some getting used to, but he likes how much less weighted down he feels. Some students walk through the little foyer Zach finds himself frozen in, whether due to the cool air wooshing at him or a small hurricane of uncertainty in his chest, and Zach does know that he has to move on eventually.

So he mans up and walks into the library, Chris's descriptions of the place echoing like a voiceover in his head until they lead him to a back corner with a circular table and a window, next to a really old Emily Dickinson edition and Whitman and Thoreau and . . .

Chris. Chris with his enormous bag, sitting at the table alone, glasses gone missing and his hair is longer and Zach watches his foot bounce impatiently as he reads.

After a minute of Zach's stalkerish gazing Chris stills, spins around and stands up and ransacks all rational thought from Zach with the force of his blue eyes, the same ones that Zach isn't basing his life around, the ones that are no longer filtered through glass and Zach feels like they are seeing each other clearly for the first time.

"You can hear me _breathing?_ " Zach says stupidly.

Chris's expression goes from comically agape to comically excited. He takes a step forward, and there's a less defensive brand of confidence about him. He notices Zach's outfit. "Um?"

Zach shrugs. "It's the new me."

Chris laughs, takes another step closer. "Why are you—?"

"I'm auditioning all over the place around here."

"Oh. Well. Good. I'm. I'm sick of living in the dorms, you know?"

"Yeah. I mean, I guess."

And they continue to stand there at their spots on the carpet, motionless and unable to stop smiling and it doesn't feel awkward in the least, it feels scary and perfect.

"I should . . . ha, I should give you the tour, huh?" Chris says around his grin.

"Sure."

And Chris just takes Zach's hand in his like it's the most natural thing in the world and leads him—

"This," Chris announces, then leans close with hands sliding into Zach's unclogged hair. "This is the staircase that nobody uses where I ki— _mmmm_."

Zach finishes his sentence for him, can't believe how perfectly the same Chris tastes, how perfectly the same his lips give under Zach's, how perfectly the same he murmurs Zach's name when they part for air.

"Perfect," Chris sighs, nudging his nose against Zach's neck. The smell of his hair and the heat of his arms and the vibrations of his voice . . .

"Exactly."

*

Much, much later Zach answers his phone and Chris starts talking before Zach's even cleared his throat:

"Well, I told her. I think she was more excited than I was."

Zach laughs. "You didn't, like, spill your coffee or anything?"

"Uh, no I did not, _Zach_." There's a lot of background noise while Chris pauses to take a sip of his drink.

"You've really gotta kick that caffeine habit, you know."

"Fuck you, man. Like you're in any place to lecture me about the transferable skills of my favorite pastimes. I'm pretty sure you never would've landed the role in the first place if I hadn't forced The Original Series on you back in the day."

"Yeah yeah yeah. Do you want me to pick you up?"

Chris laughs.

"So yeah," Zach says. "We're going to be doing a lot of press together, probably . . ."

"Yeah, no shit."

"And because I of course knew you would get the role . . ."

"Ugh, shut up. I sucked just as badly the second time around, seriously—"

"Um yeah, I was there, and you didn't. No more from your internal critic, please," Zach says. " _Anyway_ , we're going to have to come up with an explanation for how we met."

Chris laughs. "What, you mean we can't just tell them we were high school sweethearts?"

"Not sure I'd put it in exactly those terms . . ."

"Eh, it's close enough."

"I was thinking we could just tell them we have the same personal trainer or something."

"But we _do_ have the same—"

"Yeah, I know."

Chris laughs. "It's all pretty stereotypically Hollywood, isn't it?"

"Mm."

"Mm."

"Hey, are you still coming over tonight?"

"Duh. And Zach? If the script is any indication . . . " Chris's voice meanders. "It's going to be a lot of . . . _fun_ playing enemies, well, _again_ . . ."

Zach perks up. "Oh yeah?"

"Mhmm, so maybe we should, like, go over some stuff tonight."

"Sounds like a plan. Captain."

*


End file.
